


$21.99

by the_most_beautiful_broom



Series: 12 Days of Ficmas 2018 [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Angst, F/M, Inspired by The Gift of the Magi - O. Henry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-08-26 02:42:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16673212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_most_beautiful_broom/pseuds/the_most_beautiful_broom
Summary: For the prompt:  "some sort of bellarke au with the gift of the magi"





	$21.99

Clarke clenched her eyes shut, her index finger hovering over the computer mouse in the public library. She held her breath, then clicked enter. The Wells Fargo login page flickered and her account balance pulled up...Clarke’s breath hissed between her teeth when she saw the number.

Twenty-one dollars and ninety-nine cents.

At least it wasn’t a negative number.

That was as optimistic a thought as she could conjure, blinking at the number, willing it to increase. It didn’t. Just stayed there, four numbers on a faded desktop.

Clarke logged off the computer, cleared the history, carefully pushed the chair back in.

$21.99.

She chewed her lower lip, in the biting wind outside the library waiting for the bus.

She’d been so good with budgeting these past couple months; had paid all their bills on time, early, to avoid late charges. Picked all the discount brands at the grocery store, got frozen vegetables instead of anything in the produce aisle. Bummed a ride with Raven instead of taking the bus every day. And yet, $21.99.

And tomorrow was Christmas.

The bus rolled up with a hiss and a screech and Clarke climbed aboard, contemplative, pulling her threadbare cardigan closer around her. The bus rumbled and started up again; Clarke leaned against the window, her breath little puffs on the cold glass. Seventeen stops to go, seventeen stops to think of how she could turn $21.99 into some kind of decent Christmas present.

Seventeen stops later, the bus halted jerkingly in front of a red-brick complex; Clarke climbed off with a couple others. She imagined their faces looked just as weary as hers. They made their way slowly up the paths, splitting off to the one-room apartments beyond each door. Clarke stopped by the mailroom, purely out of habit.

Printed with a hurried pen on the PO Box for apartment 42 was ‘Mr and Mrs Bellamy Blake’. Clarke’s fingers traced both Bs carefully, then she opened the box.

When the landlord had written their names on the box, Bell had been making $600 a week at Kane’s factory. Now, he was being paid $475 a week, and there wasn’t as much work for a freelancing artist in Arkadia as Clarke had hoped.

Nothing, of course, in the PO Box, and Clarke was almost relieved. She really didn’t know what she would’ve done with another cheery Christmas card, with another trite message, from another perfect family.

Clarke made her way up to the fourth floor, her feet falling heavier on each step.

$21.99.

For months, she’d been dreaming. Dreaming as she chose cheaper options at the grocery store, at the clothing store, everywhere, planning for what she could buy Bellamy for Christmas. Her Bellamy. Something nice for him, something to make his worry-lined face ease, something tangible to show how much he meant to her.

He’d say that being with her was enough of a gift, and she felt the same, but still.  

Clarke opened the door, closed it, leaned against it, thinking.

There was a mirror across the hall from the door, one of those long thin strips that you buy for students, to hang on the back of their dorm room doors. She and Bellamy had hung it on their actual wall, planning to upgrade once the time was right. Of course, it never had been.

Clarke tilted her head, catching her reflection in the mirror.

Blue eyes, tired eyes, faded sweater, hair pulled haphazardly into a french braid, falling down to the small of her back. She smiled at the reflection, a soft smile, heavy with a memory.

A halloween party, years ago.

She’d gone as Rapunzel, flowers in her hair.

She’d met a man whose outlandish fake beard couldn’t hide the warmth of his eyes, the light dancing off his skin, his broad shoulders. He’d explained his costume as Father Time, and she’d rolled her eyes, but let him explain it to her.

Love at first sight was for fairytales, not subsidized apartments, but Clarke fell, right in that moment.

When they were married two years later, she’d worn flowers in her hair, and he’d worn one of the watches from that costume, something vintage from his absentee father, something he joked was worth more than his life.

Back in the present, Clarke’s fingers lifted to her hair. She pulled the tie from the end of it, shaking her head slowly, and the blonde tresses fell out of the braid. It cascaded over her shoulders like a stream, past her waist, past her hips; now free of the braid, it fell further still.

If Helen of Sparta had hair as yours, Bellamy had told her, the Trojan war would’ve been fought years before.

If Persephone had been as radiant, Bellamy had said, she must’ve banished darkness from the depths of the underworld.

Clarke lifted her chin at her reflection, her hair shimmering.

She didn’t cry, she never cried.

But her image in the mirror was blurry, and Clarke turned from it quickly.

$21.99 just wasn’t going to work.

She drew in a breath, wrapped a scarf over her head, pulled her cardigan around her once again, her step quick. She flew down the stairs, past the bus stop, down a street she rarely ventured, past curious people on the street, surprised by the bright light in her eyes as she hurried by them.

When her step slowed, she pursed her lips, catching her reflection once again. Then she opened a door, and the bell rang, on a shop with a wooden sign that read: “Vera’s. Hair Articles of all Kinds.”

Up the steps Clarke ran, stopping to catch her breath when she made it to the top. At the end of a large room sat a woman, shrewd eyed, who looked up expectantly.

Clarke wet her lips.

“Will you buy my hair?” she asked on a rush, the words sounding distant, unreal.

“That’s what the sign says, doesn’t it?” Vera said, but she stepped off the stool, looking at Clarke appraisingly. “Let’s see it.”

Clarke swallowed, pulled off her scarf, and the golden waterfall curled around her.

Vera rolled around the air in her mouth. “Two hundred.”

“Two fifty,” Clarke gritted.

“Done,” Vera said quickly, and Clarke sighed.

“Okay. Quickly, now.”

Razor sharp scissors came out of Vera’s belt and Clarke clenched her eyes shut. She didn’t look at the floor when she left, mutely accepted a roll of twenties from Vera.

Oh but how the next few hours flew as she flitted between stores. No longer was she playing with change, but with actual currency. This would be a proper Christmas, a good Christmas, one that they’d remember forever. She was giddy with possibilities—a good tie, something he could wear on interviews—oh maybe a briefcase? That would impress hiring managers. Maybe a tablet, not the name brand ones but something as good as. Or tickets to the next season of Shakespeare productions at the center, or a vintage copy of some book or—there.

She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, bumped a bit by commuters who clucked at her, and moved around. But in the shop window, Clarke saw it, and she could practically here Handel’s Hallelujah chorus playing.

It was made for Bellamy, nobody else; it had to be. She hadn’t seen anything like it in the entire city, and she’d been through the entire city.

A gold watch band. Simple, elegant, rich and pure metal. Its value was in its simplicity, like all truly sumptuous things.

It was good enough for his father’s watch.

It was perfect for Bell, just perfect. It was like him—unassuming, indisputable quality, complex, beautiful. Good.

“You’re in luck,” the cashier said inside, “It’s on sale! $270.”

Clarke looked at the bills in her hand. “Can you split that between debit and cash?”

The cashier’s eyes softened, and she nodded.

Clarke left the shop with a brown paper bag, clutched tightly in her hands, and a quiet voice in the back of her mind whispering that she had less than two dollars in her bank account.

Clarke pushed out into the wind, the cardigan ever tighter, and told the voice, ever so politely, that it could kindly shut up.

After all, tomorrow was Christmas.

When she opened the door of the apartment, Clarke actually jumped when she saw her reflection in the mirror. She tore her eyes away, walked deliberately over to the table, set the parcel down. Drew in a fortifying breath and looked again.

She’d entertained some blind hope that it’d be a chic city bob. Maybe she’d look refined, corporate, the type of woman who buys her husband a $270 watch band with her spare change. But she didn’t. She looked like someone who had had her hair hacked off, quickly, unevenly. Finally.

Clarke ran her fingers over the short locks, determined.

Bellamy didn’t love her hair; he loved her. He wouldn’t care.

“Besides,” she said to her reflection, doing her best to add authority into her voice, “what kind of gift was I supposed to buy with $21.99?”

Her reflection didn’t say anything.

So she left it, turned to the kitchen, made herself busy so she wouldn’t think about it. They’d been on a pretty liquid diet recently—it lasted longer, and was warmer, than most other options, but tonight Clarke didn’t think Bellamy would mind. What kind of pauper’s fare could it be, if the hand that held the spoon had such a fine watch band?

Bellamy wasn’t home at 7.

Clarke stirred the pot absently, looking from the clock on the stove to the door, then back again.

7:16, and he still wasn’t home.

It wasn’t like him to be late. Clarke switched off the heat—wouldn’t do them any good to run the gas bill up—and made herself sit at the table, be still.

7:24, and she heard his footsteps.

The key turned in the lock and Clarke knew it was irrational, knew it was petty, knew neither she nor Bellamy were so superficial, but her heart plummeted.

“Please think I’m still pretty,” she whispered, hands clenching the brown paper bag.

The door opened.

The cold blew in with Bellamy, and a shiver worked over Clarke. Bellamy’s shoulders were hunched from the wind, broad frame bent against the chill. As he stepped inside, she watched the weight lift off his shoulders, and her heart warmed. This was home.

Then he saw her.

And he didn’t look repulsed, didn’t look shocked, didn’t look upset. His brown eyes blinked and his mouth opened slightly, but he didn’t say anything.

He’s not in love with my hair, Clarke reminded herself, he loves me. He’s just surprised.

She went to him.

“It’ll grow out, Bellamy,” she said softly, as she got closer.

At the tremor in her voice, it was like something snapped inside of him, and a smile broke over his face.

“Course it will,” he said. He shrugged out of his jacket, leaning over to press a kiss to the top of her head. He pulled back, his back hunching a bit as he bent to meet her at eye level. “God, I married up,” he said quietly, sweetly, and Clarke’s eyes flooded.

He was too good to her, always was.

“It’s for Christmas,” she explained quickly, the words tripping over themselves on their way out of her, “well, I just hadn’t saved as much as I’d wanted and I wanted to get you something nice, Bell, something really nice, because you’ve been so stressed with work and everything and—”

“Hey hey hey,” Bellamy said gently, soothingly, and Clarke stopped her babbling. “It’s Christmas and I’ve got my girl. That’s plenty enough for me.”

He meant it; she could see it in the curve of his smile and the light in his eyes. He meant it, but she’d still do it again.

Before she could say anything, Bellamy bent, picking up his discarded jacket. From it, he drew a small package, in a department store bag. He looked at it for a long moment, like he was feeling the weight of it. Then he looked up at her.

“Nothing,” he said, his voice thick, “nothing like a haircut could make me love you any less. You know that, right?”

Clarke smiled. Of course she _knew_ that, she’d never doubted that, but it just...fear was an irrational thing. She nodded.

“Okay,” Bellamy said, and she didn’t know it was to herself or him. He held the package out to her. “Um, this is why I didn’t know what to say. When I first came in, I mean.”

Clarke didn’t know what to say to that, but she took the package wordlessly.

Opened it.

Gasped, then her breath caught.

It was the combs. The combs—it sounded so melodramatic—but she’d seen them in a shop window, years and years ago. Scoured Target and TJ Maxx, looking for something that kind of, almost, if you squinted, resembled them. She couldn’t.

Tortoise shell, with delicate jasmine flowers in some shiny white gem. The kind that she couldn’t afford, that she knew they wouldn’t be able to afford, for years to come. The kind that would’ve complemented her, only her, that would’ve looked gaudy on any hair less magnificent.

Now they would look a farce.

Clarke looked up, eyes full, heart bursting, to see Bellamy watching her carefully. With the hand that wasn’t holding the precious combs, she reached for him, her hand gentle on the side of his face. “I love you,” she whispered.

Bellamy smiled, a peaceful calming smile that was worth more than even the combs. “I love you,” he repeated back to her, and he pulled her to him.

She fit into his arms as she always had, perfectly.

“My hair,” she said, and it was muffled in his sweater, so she pulled back a bit, “my hair grows so fast, Bell.”

Her hair.

The words reminded her, spurred her, and she pushed herself out of his arms. Grabbed his hand, squeezed it when he looked confused, and pulled him over to the table.

He hadn’t seen his gift yet.

Nearly giddy with anticipation, she handed him her bag.

He took it, opened it, and an unreadable expression passed over his face. Then he laughed, shortly, like it wasn’t funny, but his eyes were brimming and he pulled on the hand he still held. She went to him, confused, but he kissed her earnestly, and she was hardly one to complain.

Eventually she pulled back, pushing on his chest.

“Wait, Bellamy,” she said, breathless. “I want to see it. Let’s put it with your watch, yeah? Can’t be too hard?”

Bellamy smiled again and he sighed, kissing her quickly again. “I’d love to,” he said, when he moved back, his face a breath from hers, “I sold the watch to buy the combs.”

Clarke’s mouth dropped and Bellamy nodded a little as the realization set in.

“Bellamy—”

“It smells good in here,” he said, interrupting her gently. And she knew what he was doing, moving on from it so neither of them had to think about what they’d given up so they could give to each other.

“Fancy new recipe,” she said dryly, “I call it Chili We Made Last Tuesday That Has Somehow Lasted Till Tonight.”

Bellamy smiled. “Also known as Christmas Chili.”

And Clarke smiled. “I like your title better.”

“And I,” Bellamy pulled her back into his side, and they shuffled over to the kitchen, “like you.”

It was a throwback, of course it was with him, to how she’d been terrified to say ‘I love you’ for their first year of dating. She knew she felt it, he knew she felt it, but the words had just stuck in her throat. So for a year, she’d deliberately and emphatically reminded him that she liked him. He knew what it meant.

And now, she knew what he meant.


End file.
